


The World Is Dark And Wild

by Amerson



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Feral Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-13 02:47:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21236870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amerson/pseuds/Amerson
Summary: (Written in a universe where the three lords didn't go to Remire Village, Byleth doesn't join the church, and Dimitri doesn't meet them until five years into the war.)While assisting her father's mercenaries in protecting a village against bandits, Byleth encounters a strange and tortured young man who is missing an eye. He's one of the strongest fighters she's ever seen, and there's something oddly compelling about him that she can't name. He claims to be many things: an agent of vengeance, the doom of the Empire, and the rightful prince of Faerghus. Through him, perhaps, there may yet be hope the war can be ended.Dimitri wonders why he stays with Jeralt's band; in a world rapidly going to hell, and him with it, all that matters is killing Edelgard. But there's something about Jeralt's strange and beautiful daughter that haunts him, as though they were destined to meet. She might be able to save him, but can he save her?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, thanks for reading my first fic,
> 
> This fic was inspired by an anonymous ask on a Dimitri blog (https://dimilethdisaster.tumblr.com/post/188167110402/consider-this-childhood-friends-dimileth-au-but) where Dimitri and Byleth don't meet at the academy but instead when Dimitri is already feral.
> 
> All feedback is appreciated! Thanks again!

_I cherished_

_you perished_

_the world's been nightmarished_

\--Lemony Snicket, _The End_

* * *

They'd set the forest alight to drive him out, like the animal he knew he was.

The smoke haze was thickening rapidly, but he could hear the screams of villagers and their livestock ahead of him. His lance burned beneath his fingers. It was a trap. It was obviously a trap.

Who cared?

With a small explosion (_it sounded like--) _a tree next to him vanished into a pillar of flame. The fire was now out of control and leaping into the forest crowns. A hellish red light tinted the air and searing hot winds buffeted his back as the fire built itself into a storm. The village was doomed now, no matter how many the bandits chose to kill or spare.

_So you will do nothing, then? I expected no better from you. _His father's voice hissed into his ear, savage with disgust. Not real, your Highness, Dedue had said, but then Dedue had turned into a ghost himself, so what did he know?

Mad laughter echoed and he tightened his grip on his lance. _Just watch them die then, your Highness. It's not like you could help them anyway--when have you ever made things better?_

He couldn't put a face to this voice but it didn't matter, it was all of them. "No," he snarled, breaking into a run. "I won't." Because what else was he good for, really? If he couldn't save the villagers, he could avenge them.

The bandits had been chasing him for a full day and a night--it was now a few hours from dawn. They'd picked him up on the road as he pushed south-west, searching for Imperial patrols, for a pass through the Oghma Mountains. He would have killed them with ease, but they weren't fools enough to face him personally. Those on horses had galloped ahead to lay the trap while those behind had started the fire. He hadn't known there was a village in the way, or he would have risked the flames and doubled back to kill them.

All the lives that would be lost, all the property destroyed, all those orphaned children. The voices were right, when was the last time he had ever done anything good for his people? He could still remember Ashe's tearstained face as Lonato braced himself to meet Catherine's blade. Sylvain's horror as the brother he thought lost writhed into a monster before their eyes. Felix sneering, demanding to know why he hadn't taken the throne earlier, and custom be damned. And Duscar, always there was Duscar.

He burst out of the trees and into the village, and realized that, almost lost in the building roar of the fire, he could hear the sounds of weapons clashing. Were the villagers fighting back? Brave, but doomed--

He pushed into the large town square and halted as it took a second for him to process the scene. These weren't villagers stabbing back with pitchforks, but true warriors, their swords glinting crimson in the night. One robed individual at the back threw a sharp blade of wind at a bandit and cut him off at the knees. The animal sounds he had heard in the forest weren't of livestock dying, but the rage of blood-mad destriers, their weight making the ground rattle as their riders charged forwards. One such rider led the pack, mounted on a huge beast that could have come straight from Garreg Mach's stables, armor and all. He held his lance with perfect balance as the weight of his charge pierced it straight through an outlaw's throat. With a deceptively simple flick of his wrist, he pulled the lance free and sliced it sideways across the chest of another thug, almost too fast for the eye to follow.

It was over in minutes. The bandits who were still on horseback galloped away, only to be shot down by archers positioned by the entrances. Other bandits threw down their weapons, but the strange warriors were in no mood for mercy and set to work. They were no fools--parasites such as these could never be reformed. Even a quick death was a kindness he was not certain they deserved.

"Hey, you there," rasped a voice behind him. He turned to see the rider who had used the lance so well, aboard his great horse. No doubting it now--that was a paladin's mount. The stranger removed his helm to reveal a strong, grizzled face.

"You're no peasant. What are you doing here? You with the bandits?"

He bared his teeth in a wolf's smile. "No. I came to kill them. But it appears you have beaten me to them--the ones here, anyway."

The paladin frowned. "There are more of them?"

He shrugged. "In the forest. They lit the fire. They'll probably come this way soon."

"Damn it. I need time to evacuate the villagers before that fire turns us all to cinders, but I can't do that and kill rats at the same time..." He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "What's your name?"

Name?

When was the last time someone had asked his name?

_Don't tell them who you are, _Dedue's voice whispered. _They're obviously a mercenary company. If they find out you're the disgraced prince of Faerghus, they'll try to sell you to the highest bidder._

Did that matter? Maybe it did. The villagers needed someone to rescue them. He couldn't do that on his own. He could always kill the mercenaries later.

"Dima," he replied. Some of the castle servants used to call him that as a nickname, when he was very young.

"Dima. I'm Jeralt. Nice lance you got there. If you're still up for a spot of rat hunting, you should go find my daughter on the outskirts. Her name's Byleth. Tell her about the second group of bandits. Between you, her, and her squad, you should be able to hold them off until I'm free to finish them." Jeralt squinted at the oncoming flames and scowled. "They're going to be roast pork if they sit in that for much longer. So will we, for that matter."

"How am I supposed to recognize your daughter?" Dimitri asked flatly.

The older man merely grinned. "She's hard to miss. Good luck." He put his heels to his horse and cantered into the smoke, calling in his deep voice for his mercenaries.

_Jeralt. _The name seemed familiar somehow, but Dimitri didn't ponder it. It irked him to be take instructions from a stranger, but the man hadn't ordered him, exactly, and he was right in that the villagers needed to be evacuated. Dimitri reached up to rub the scar beneath his eyepatch and set off for the edge of the village.

The air was growing hotter and thicker, stinging at his eyes and throat. Shadows rushed past him--he could not tell if they were human or more ghosts. The roar of the firestorm was blocking out their whispers. Embers danced above him, landing to rest on the thatching of the cottages. One caught alight, flames licking at the roof and streaming down the walls. Were there still people inside? Surely not.

In the fires he saw the smooth, polished metal face of the Emperor, and knew the cold purple eyes that lay behind them. A red mist that had nothing to do with the wildfire descended across his vision. "Edelgard," he hissed. "Did you come to watch them burn for you, Edelgard? For your glorious new Fódlan?"

_What else are they good for? _he heard her laugh, and then with a _crack _the roof gave way, collapsing into a cloud of ash and cinders that seared his face. He jumped back and turned to see a woman staring at him. He flinched away, expecting another ghost to sneer, but no--she was real.

The woman turned her eyes from him to the flames. "You'd think," she murmured, so soft he almost couldn't hear her, "...something that took so long to build, that has stood here for generations...it shouldn't go to pieces so quickly." She began to walk away, and the firelight gleamed off the sword in her hand. She held it with the unconsciousness of a true swordmaster, as though it was an extension of her arm. There were traces of blood on the blade.

_You'll know her when you see her. _"Are you Byleth?"

She stopped and looked back. "I am. And you are...?"

He ignored this. "There are more bandits coming from the forest. Your father wants you to hold them off while he evacuates the villagers." He expected some sort of response to this, at least an enquiry about his presence, but she simply nodded and turned away again, breaking into a jog.

Dimitri blinked, for a moment slightly off kilter. He had not wanted a barrage of questions, of course, but her swift withdrawal left him feeling somewhat...cheated. He was the one who was supposed to reject social niceties. He set off after her, catching her easily with his longer legs. She didn't say a single word until they reached the outskirts, where a few dozen hardened mercenaries raised their weapons to Byleth in salute.

"New orders from Jeralt," the woman said crisply, sheathing her blade. "Another group of bandits was spotted moving through the trees. I daresay they'll be panicking by now with this madness at their backs. Rochelle, take your pegasus up and drop a flare where you think they'll be coming out. Bring a wind mage with you to clear the smoke so you can breathe. The rest of you--not much strategy needed. Archers and mages, take down as many as you can until they engage the front lines. Don't shoot if you think you'll hit a comrade. Cavalry will flank once the rats are tangled up. You know the drill."

She had to be the youngest among the soldiers by several years, yet there was no argument. A heavily scarred woman mounted an equally battered pegasus along with a masked mage. They took off, the mage forcing the smoky air to either side of their passage.

"Wish I had a wyvern rider," Byleth muttered, seemingly to herself. "They handle arrows better. If one of the rats is good with a bow..."

Dimitri snorted. "In a forest burning around them, at a small target a hundred feet above them in a sky filled with smoke? If it was the Hero Riegan holding Failnaught I still wouldn't like his odds."

The woman turned to him. "You know military tactics." It wasn't a question.

He didn't answer. Only a fool trusted mercenaries. They lived and died for gold and gold alone. If they worked out who he was, they'd try to take his head to Cornelia within the hour.

There was a burst of odd purple light, and Byleth's sword leaped into her hand. "Rochelle's found them. Follow the flash! Stay in formation!" She looked hard at Dimitri. "Can you fight?"

He laughed, sounding insane even to his own ears. "Watch me." He plunged into the smoke haze, chasing the purple flare, hearing the pound of soldiers and cavalry after him. For a moment his mind felt wonderfully clear; he could have been seventeen again, at the front of an army, Sylvain and Dedue at either side, Felix in his shadow. Rochelle's old pegasus swooped down close to deliver the scouting report, but he didn't hear it; the beating of its wings transformed into the sound Ingrid soaring overhead. The dancing flames became Annette and Mercedes' spells, and Ashe's bowstring thrummed as his arrow leaped away into the nearest bandit's heart. It didn't matter if he lived or died--his friends were with him--

_Oh yes we are, Your Highness, _he heard Dedue's ghost sneer. _Too bad you weren't strong enough to save your kingdom, so we could be here in the flesh as well. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You couldn't even save me._

Dimitri roared and swung his lance at the first bandit he saw. Everything seemed to freeze--there were no illusions now, just the burning rage, the need to do something, _anything. _Any shape became a target--he wasted no thought on discerning if it was a bandit or a mercenary. Their screams whirled past him, their blood splattered across his face. They didn't stand against him. They didn't even try.

"You want me? Come and get me, damn you!" he snarled as he saw the shadows turn to flee. "Cowards! _Fight me!_"

But they were vanishing, back into the trees, back into the hell he knew he deserved to burn in, and before he could run after them he felt a hand on his arm. He whirled, lance flashing, but Byleth stepped back with remarkable grace, the blade missing her throat by an inch as the wind from its passing ruffled her hair.

"No point going after them now," she said, completely unperturbed by her near-decapitation. "The trees are collapsing in there and the smoke's too thick. They're done for. You'd die yourself if you chased after them."

There was a point. They hadn't suffered enough. Burning or suffocation was too good for them, for what they'd tried to do to the villagers.

But if he died here, Edelgard won. If he died here, it was all for nothing. He spun his lance until it pointed towards the ground.

"Come on," Byleth said, releasing him and beginning to walk away. "Let's catch up with Jeralt and the rest. We'll be needed to help the villagers." She spoke as though there were no doubt he would follow; after a moment's hesitation, he did, the mercenaries ranging around them. He wondered if he'd killed any, if they'd gotten in his way. Surely they wouldn't be so nonchalant towards him if they had. On the other hand, perhaps they were all like Byleth, and utterly sanguine about the presence of death? For a second he envied their serenity, their ability to just _not feel. _It was a skill he'd never, ever learned.

More time had passed during the battle than he'd realized, and as they headed up the main road, away from the raging forest fire, dawn's light began to break across the horizon. It fell across Byleth, and he watched her as he walked, not even looking away when she glanced back at him. In the sunlight he could see that she was remarkably beautiful, with dark cyan hair falling messily to her shoulders. Her features were delicate but expressionless, and her wide blue eyes were oddly blank as she surveyed the horizon. She was not tall, but well curved and muscular. The sort of woman that Sylvain loved to chase.

He wondered why he was still following her. To help the villagers? It felt like an excuse. They didn't need him. But for the first time in five years he was surrounded by people who weren't running from him or trying to kill him. They might be odd, but so was he. Deep, deep down in his heart, he wanted to feel like a human among humans again. No matter the danger.

Just for a few hours.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to all those who commented and offered feedback on my first chapter. The support has been absolutely incredible!
> 
> The lullaby in question here is "Bayu Bayushki Bayu", a Russian lullaby. You may have heard the Huntress from Dead by Daylight humming it, or the Plain Doll in Bloodborne.

_and what i want to know is _

_how do you like your blue-eyed boy_

_Mister Death_

\--E. E. Cummings, _Buffalo Bill's_

* * *

The wind was blowing from the north, sweeping the ash and smoke away and allowing them to breathe clearly at last as they reached the camp.

Byleth combed her fingers through her hair, trying to shake off the worst of the ash. Behind, her squad trooped in wearily, with red-rimmed eyes and clothes stained black with soot and reeking of fire. They looked like they'd survived a trip through hell rather than a brief skirmish with bandits, although none of them had sustained serious injuries, thanks to...

She shook her head and called out to her mercenaries. "You've all done well. Go get some water and rest. Make certain you check with the healers if you're coughing or feel any tightness in your chest--smoke inhalation is nothing to mess about with. Jeralt will likely want to brief us at noon." They saluted in response and trudged past her.

Byleth had sent Rochelle ahead with a message of their success, so her father's mercenaries had settled in. But rather than the strict military style that she was used to, the camp before them more resembled a triage after a hectic battle. Riven Village had a population of about thirty, and from the looks of things Jeralt had managed to rescue most of them. Some villagers huddled together against the wind's edge, swathed in sooty blankets, while others were simply lying flat on the bare earth, shivering and staring emptily at the sky. There were bowls of soup everywhere, but most looked untouched. Someone had set up the large hospital tent, and through the thin fabric echoed dry, desolate sobbing. Burn victims, maybe, or perhaps the bandits had managed to attack some villagers after all.

There was a faint scraping sound behind her and she looked back to see the stranger who had brought Jeralt's message staring hard at the hospital tent. He had driven his lance into the earth and the pressure of his hand was grinding the tip against stone.

"You'll dull the edge by doing that," she said mildly, and he turned to glare at her. It was the first time she'd seen his face properly, and her first impression was that someone had taken a handsome youth and thrown him into the woods to be raised by wolves. He was younger than she'd first thought--his height and the bulk of his cloak had deceived her in the red-rimmed shadows of the previous night--probably a few years younger than herself (not that she knew her own age). There was something wolflike in his expression, too, like that of one caged, deciding whether or not to lunge and snap at the hand outstretched towards it. But his one good eye: that was what held her the most. There was nothing animal in his stare, only an unrestrained, furious anguish that seared straight through her. She'd seen pain like that only once before...

He didn't respond to her previous remark. The wolf decided not to bite. He merely walked away, past the desolate villagers, his blue cloak swirling behind him. Even beneath the soot stains, Byleth could make out the head and wings of a silver griffin. She watched him go for a few moments, then went to find her father.

Jeralt was grooming his horse, scraping fine particles of ash from her coat. The horse whickered in greeting to Byleth and she lightly touched the mare's nose. "Hello, Rhiannon. Hello, Father."

"I'm always glad to see you prioritize greeting my horse over me," he replied dryly. He tapped the soft brush on his knee to remove the soot. "I got your message. No injuries?"

Byleth shrugged. "Some minor burns and scratches, plus there'll be a few who've breathed in too much smoke. But we got off very lightly." She frowned into the distance. "I want a wyvern rider."

"You and every other armed force in Fódlan. They cost a fortune, and that's just to hire them. The feed bill is something else altogether. Plus, they're in short supply at the moment. With the monastery gone, the only quality wyvern handlers are in the Alliance or the Empire, and they're not sharing." He switched to a mane brush and began combing through Rhiannon's tail. "I see the messenger I sent to you has decided to remain with us. He says his name is Dima. What's your thoughts?"

Byleth considered her answer carefully. "He's an incredible fighter. I'd say the only reason why we got through them as quickly as we did was that he tore so many of them apart. They were terrified of him."

Jeralt grunted. "Notice anything unusual about him?"

"Aside from that, you mean? Well..." She decided not to try and explain what she'd seen in his face. She wasn't sure what it meant, herself. "...What's unusual by your standards?"

"His lance, for one. It's scuffed, but it's clearly castle-forged steel. Better than any other lance we have in the band, maybe even better than mine. You saw his cloak, at least?"

She nodded. "It has the griffin of Faerghus on it."

"And he came running into the village straight from the forest. The _burning _forest. Said he came to kill bandits. How'd he know they were here? How'd he know there were more behind him?" Jeralt shook his head. "So we have either a Faerghus knight, or someone who's killed a Faerghus knight. Don't know which I prefer. You walked with him back here, yes? Did you speak to him?"

"No." Her response was simple. She hadn't even thought to speak with him.

Jeralt sighed, almost inaudibly, and stared down at the ground for a few moments. "You should. Find out what you can about him. If he's as good a fighter as you say, then maybe we can use him, but I don't want any unstable psychopaths in my ranks."

_Aside from the ones you already have, you mean. _Byleth knew, on some deep and fundamental level, that she was a disappointment to her father. He loved her, of course he did, but she was not the daughter he wanted. She poured herself into learning everything she could from him; every weapon, every mount, all there was to know about tactics and logistics. But he wanted a daughter who could smile and laugh with him, who could talk with him about more things than just the superficialities of life. A daughter who could feel...something. Anything.

Because this disappointment was one of the few things that could pierce her to her core, she changed the subject. "What are you going to do with the villagers? They can't possibly go back home, can they?"

"No," he replied, almost as eager as her to move on. "There's nothing left for them there--it's not just the buildings. All the fields will be burnt, and they won't be able to poach from the forests. The streams will be too clogged with ash to provide fish. With winter approaching, if they go back, they might as well flip a coin now and choose whether to die from frostbite or starvation."

"Did you save all of them?" Byleth asked softly.

He closed his eyes briefly. "Twenty-six. Two got caught by the bandits--we weren't fast enough to rescue them. One was too old. About halfway here he just collapsed and nobody could make him get up again. And the last...a baby. His mother was one of the two the bandits killed and we couldn't find his father. Turned out he didn't have one. Gwydion had him in a sling over his shoulder, but...I guess he stayed too long in the smoke. The healers did all they could, but he was just too little. He let go so quickly once they took the magic off him. Maybe it was for the best. He's with his mother now." 

Byleth looked away, around the camp. The mercenaries were unusually subdued, most just quietly getting on with washing clothes and maintaining weapons. She could only see one cookfire, and it was carefully kept banked and well out of sight of the villagers. Gwydion had taken out his lute and was playing something so softly that she could only half-hear the gentle, sweet notes. She recognized it, though: an old lullaby from Albinea, about grey wolves slinking through frigid nights to steal children for the forest-witches.

"Where can they go?" she said at last. "Their ruling lord? Who is that around here?"

"Technically it's Arundel land, but he'll be off fighting with the Emperor somewhere to the east, and from what I've heard of him he doesn't have much space in his heart for starving peasants. Up Kingdom way, Gaspard's not far to the north, but he tried to rebel against the Central Church and got his head cut off for his pains. His son was already dead and according to rumor his adopted heir's a commoner who refused to declare for the Empire or Cornelia, so who knows what's going on there now? Besides, we'd have to take the Magdred Way, and with the mists at this time of year...not a chance." He sighed and turned towards the mountains. "The only place I can think of...is Garreg Mach."

"The monastery?" She was confused. "I thought it was sacked by the Adrestian army."

"The defences are gone, and some of the buildings, but most of it remains intact. The Empire didn't raze the nearby villages, so there'll still be some food. And the die-hard Church members won't have left, not the place where their goddess's body is kept. In fact, I know some are still there, because I got a letter a while back from one of them. His name's Seteth--don't know who that is. Said the Church had work for us."

"What did you say?"

Jeralt scowled. "I said no. I don't much like the Church of Seiros, and frankly, we had plenty of better-paying work already. But it's in the Church's charter to help the helpless. I can make it a formal part of our contract, that they need to resettle the villagers." He saw the blank expression on Byleth's face. "I've never told you much about the Church, have I? Don't worry about it. Just treat them like any other employer, and we'll all be fine." He turned back to Rhiannon, who had begun nudging his hand, eager for the grooming to continue. "You must be starving. Go get something to eat. And bring food to our newcomer, as well. He needs a good meal. I'll talk to the men around noon."

Byleth nodded and walked for the cookfire, drawing her cloak tighter against the biting wind. Gwydion was still playing, and she found herself humming the lyrics softly. _The grey wolfie will come / He'll grab you by your tiny side / And drag you to the forest / And drag you to the forest down / Down under the aspen tree._

She had always known she was different, and not merely because her heart lay dead and silent in her chest. There were rumors about her, even within the mercenary band. No-one seemed to believe that she was Jeralt's true daughter. Some said that she was a demon that Jeralt had caught and spared in return for eternal service. Others claimed that she had been rescued from the Empire, where dark experiments had been performed on her to give her impossible skill with weapons. More yet whispered of deep traumas, that she had seen things as a child that had frozen her forever. The worst part was that she could not deny any of them. There were large chunks of her life--months, years even--that seemed to have receded within a deep fog. Her father said not to worry, that he had such gaps too, that everyone did, but she didn't believe him.

"Well, I have gaps like that," said a sharp voice from behind her shoulder. Byleth looked back to see a young girl with fantastically long green hair floating a foot or so above the ground. Men walked past her without so much as a glance at the unusual sight, because the girl was not really there--only a projection from Byleth herself. The girl--Sothis, her name was--had begun appearing more than five years ago, first in Byleth's dreams, then in her reality. She claimed to know nothing about her past, not where she came from or why she was chained to Byleth's soul. For the most part she was acid-tongued and suffered fools poorly, and yet...Byleth had seen her weep once.

_(when--)_

"You and I do," Byleth told the green-haired girl, "but whenever I've asked someone if they have huge chunks of time missing from their memories, I get stared at like I've grown another head."

"Perhaps you ask too bluntly," Sothis replied, but distantly, studying her hands. "So, we are off to Garreg Mach Monastery, to seek out the Church of Seiros..."

Byleth sighed. "You always say things like that as though there were some deep hidden meaning behind it. We're not going to stay. We're going to drop off our villagers, do whatever work they have for us, then move on."

"What work could the Church have for you? Are they not powerless? Chewed up and spat out by the war engines of the great Empire..." Her eyes began to flutter; she was about to fade away into slumber. "And that young man you found...quite singular, is he not?" She vanished, leaving Byleth to frown; the strange girl rarely displayed an interest in any particular person.

She picked up two bowls of stew from the cookfire with a nod of thanks to their camp chef and set off in search of the one-eyed man (Dima?). She was half-expecting to discover that he'd left the camp, but as she turned to where they'd set up the refugees she found him, half-hidden, his back against an oak, watching a mother comfort her child with shaking hands. She sat down next to him and offered the bowl; when he turned his face away, she simply put it at his feet and began to eat her own food. Her father had asked her to talk to him, but she had no idea how. She'd never managed small talk, and there was an iciness to his silence that suggested any conversation would be ignored at best.

When her bowl was empty, she turned it upside down and returned to trying to comb soot from her hair. From time to time the stranger glared at her, clearly wanting her gone, but she paid him little heed. The sun was now bright enough to be warm and she had nowhere else to be, and in truth, she found his active attempts to repel her more refreshing than the slight, half-respectful awkwardness she was subjected to by her own men.

The woman finally managed to soothe her child to sleep and stood up. Her shoulders hunched beneath an impossible weight as she disappeared into the crowd of villagers. There were no longer any sounds coming from the hospital tent; was that good or bad? Byleth began to hum softly again. _Don't come round, wolfie / don't wake up our Masha._

At the unexpected sound of her voice, Dima finally spoke: slowly, coldly, as though waking from a nightmare. "What is going to happen to these people? What is your father planning?"

Byleth tucked the strand of hair she'd been combing behind her ear. "We're taking them to Garreg Mach Monastery. If they choose to come with us. Not all of them will, I suspect."

"Garreg Mach..." Something in his tone softened, just a little. "...There are still people there?"

"At least one. He offered us some work a while back. We'll go up and see if they're willing to strike a deal. We help them, they help the villagers."

"Help..." Suddenly her whirled on her, his blue eye blazing. "Who _are _you people? Why are you helping peasants for _nothing? _ Why were you in the village in the first place?"

Byleth leaned back against the tree and half-closed her eyes. "We had just finished a job in the Empire and we were going to look for work in Faerghus--there's always something to do there. We stopped to buy supplies from Riven Village and one of our scouts reported that they saw strange horsemen coming down the road from the north. Jeralt thought they were bad news, and he was right. He gave me some men and told me to split the bandits' force in half so we had a chance to get the villagers away. I routed my half and was preparing to scout the road ahead when you showed up."

It seemed as though Dima had only heard her first sentence. "From the Empire to the Kingdom? You--you support Edelgard?" A dark, sick heat seemed to be building behind these words, and his fingers curled around his lance.

It took Byleth a moment to remember that Edelgard was the name of the Adrestian Emperor. "Support her? That's a little strong. We didn't fight in her army, if that's what you're asking, we don't join large military actions. We were in Hevring, because the old count there wanted to show some teeth to his rivals. He thought that the other baronies were going to try and move against him, now that the whole Empire is in turmoil..."

"You fight for the Empire, then you fight for _her_," he snarled, now driving the lance into the earth repeatedly.

"We're mercenaries. We fight for whoever pays us. We're off to support the remains of the Church now--would that not make us the Flame Emperor's enemy?"

He didn't respond to this, but some of the rage faded from his expression; he pulled his lance free and lay it back down on the ground. For a moment she thought he would retreat back into silence, but abruptly he looked up, into her face. She met his gaze steadily. Her father was right, she thought; Dima was thin, his face strong but gaunt, and through the gaps between his gloves and armor she could clearly see bones beneath his pale skin. It was almost impossible to believe he had cut through so many men with such ease last night. _He's starving, but he's still so strong. He's starving, but he still came to fight for the villagers. What must he have been like, before this?_

Her confusion seemed to mirror his. "You never answered my other question," he said at last, quietly. "Why are you helping these people?"

It felt like something sharp had become lodged beneath her breastbone, near where her dead heart could not beat. It felt...like grief. "Because my father said I should," she replied, her shoulders slumping. "And you'll have to take that answer for whatever it is because I don't have anything else."

He barked a laugh that had no humor in it. "At least you are honest...I suppose that's something."

"My father thinks you're a knight of Faerghus," Byleth said, and he froze. She continued, watching his hand, waiting for it to move back to the lance. "But if you come with us, if you join us, you won't be anything. Just another mercenary. Whoever or whatever you're running from..." (because he was running, wasn't he?) "...they won't find you, not with us."

Dima didn't touch his lance. He turned to face her fully, pulling himself more upright. "Never," he said, with an intensity that burned. "I will never, ever be nothing. Not while I breathe. And I do not run. I..." He hesitated, seemingly on the verge of telling her something, but at the last he pulled his words back. "I will go with you to the monastery. To make sure the villagers are safe."

She inclined her head to him. "My father will be briefing us soon. You may want to talk to him afterwards. Oh...and you should really start eating. We move pretty fast, and we won't stop if you pass out on the way."

He glanced at the bowl of stew still at his feet and picked it up. The oddly gentle and refined way he handled the bowl and spoon, as though they were made of porcelain, seemed so at odds with his wild appearance that she smiled without meaning to.

"Eat slow," she said, and closed her eyes to wait for her father's call.


	3. Chapter 3

Winter was on their heels as they approached Garreg Mach. The mornings were chill, the red and gold leaves of the trees becoming silvered with frost, and thin skeins of ice forming over puddles in the road.

Byleth had not exaggerated; their pace was punishing. Jeralt had strapped most of the villagers to horseback and kept them at a steady trot, the mercenaries ranging in scouting formations around them. Not all the villagers had agreed to come. Those who were too old, or stubborn, to make the journey to the mountains had been left with as much food as could be spared, but that was little enough. Jeralt was keeping to the forested foothills, away from the little settlements that radiated around the monastery, and this meant there was no opportunity to refresh supplies outside of hunting. Some part of Dimitri--a very small, foolish part, one he'd thought had died long ago--was irked at this, at watching mercenaries poach on his own lands. 

_What do you mean, your lands? _ mocked his father. _Aren't they Cornelia's lands? Don't you remember?_

He kept to the front, away from the dust that was churned up by their passing. The mercenaries did not acknowledge him apart from the occasional sideways glance. On the first night, one had asked him about himself. After Dimitri's response, none of the regulars had tried to speak with him again. The villagers barely spoke at all, aside from hushed conversations to their families and loved ones. He did not mind the silence. He had spent much of the last five years like this--forever moving, gazing inwards, letting the laughter and screams of his ghosts wash over him. Yet, as the battered spires of the monastery began to rise out of the horizon, he felt his mood darkening further.

Why was he even going to the monastery? For the villagers, part of him continued to insist, yet it was sounding more and more like an excuse with each day that passed. He could see now that Jeralt had nothing nefarious in mind for these shattered refugees, and his mercenaries were strikingly disciplined, never interacting with the villagers more than was necessary. Perhaps it wasn't anything to do with the villagers at all--perhaps it was a test, a hope, that there was still some good left in the world, that some people would stop and help others even at a cost to themselves. He hated the idea, hated the thought that there was still some naivety that the last five years had not crushed within him.

Byleth walked at the front, as well, and whenever he was not brooding he watched her. She was an enigma all of her own, like no woman he'd ever seen or heard of. Shamir at the monastery had been cold, but only in a professional sense; her wry humor quickly became apparent once she got to know you. Byleth remained blank even to her own father, who was the only person who regularly spoke to her. The other mercenaries regarded her with a kind of uneasy awe, and followed her orders without hesitation, but none of them would converse or approach her the way they did with Jeralt. It was not that she was repressed, or even particularly withdrawn; she genuinely seemed to have no emotions to express. From time to time she would sense his stare, and turn back to look at him. He could read nothing at all in her face, and eventually she would turn away as though something more interesting had caught her eye, leaving him strangely annoyed.

_And why do you care what she thinks of you? A commoner, a mercenary's daughter, really? _

Because she was not afraid of him. Because she'd been the first person he'd spoken to beyond a few sentences in nearly four years. He had thought--but obviously not.

_You're still such a child._

He pulled his left glove off and dug his thumbnail deep between the tendons of his right wrist, slicing in until he saw blood. The sharp pain was occasionally useful in silencing the ghosts when he had nothing to fight. Abruptly tired of being alone with his increasingly chaotic thoughts, he increased his pace until he reached Jeralt. The mercenary leader was jogging with his huge mare close to the front.

"Something up?" he said, clearly surprised to see Dimitri approaching of his own volition.

"We are less than a day from the monastery yet you are still keeping us at a loaded march. The villagers are struggling with the pace. I understand that you don't want to be found by Kingdom patrols, but surely that is no danger this close to the monastery?"

"You want to take a breather, I can find you a horse," Jeralt responded. Upon seeing Dimitri's hands slowly clench into fists, he added hurriedly, "That was a joke, lad. No, there's not much danger of Cornelia's interference, though she'd be foolish to not have a few spies stationed around the place--not much we can do about that. Food's the issue now. We were rationing before we reached Remire, and now having to feed twenty or so extra people--and you--is draining us dry. Unless we reach the monastery today, some people will have to go hungry."

"That seems like poor planning on your behalf."

"It does, but it is what it is. Times are hard. Picking up supplies anywhere in Fódlan is difficult unless you're prepared to ask forcefully. Five years of bad harvests means the locals would rather hang on to the grain they've got instead of selling it--you can't eat gold. The forests are already icing over; we've got a long winter in store, and it seems like a lot of the Kingdom in particular isn't ready for it. There may well be mass famine here before spring."

Stung, Dimitri snapped, "Every Faerghus landholder is required by law to open their grain stores to their tenants if there's a shortage--"

_Do you ever hear yourself speak, you stupid boar? _ Felix was merciless. _Can't you get through three sentences without looking like a fool? _Dimitri shook his head violently, trying to dislodge him.

"In ordinary times, I'd agree with you," Jeralt said slowly, and his eyes dropped to Dimitri's wrist, where blood had begun to seep through his glove. "But we're not in them. This war has devastated the Kingdom. Most of the farmers have been conscripted into one noble's army or another, and the ones that are left are at too much risk of banditry to manage the far fields or keep large amounts of livestock. Even if the nobles have been doing the right thing, they may have run low on supplies themselves...and I doubt many of them have been doing the right thing. Most will be keeping their food for their own forces, or selling it to the capital--prices are sky high there now. Normally it's not an issue, the Kingdom has always imported some food, but since their usual suppliers are headquartered in Alliance territory..."

"But you came up here to winter your band."

"We were going up Arianrhod way. The cities and castles are still well-provisioned and there's plenty of work, while it's far enough away from the frontlines that I won't get swept up in politics. Besides, it's not much better everywhere else. The whole continent's sick. Everyone hurts in a total war." Jeralt stroked his horse's neck and fell silent, leaving Dimitri alone with himself again.

_Claude, _he thought,_ Edelgard, why have you let this happen? After all your talk about reforming the land for the commoners...why are they suffering the most? Would I be any better than you, if I had my throne?_

_If, if, _mocked the ghosts. _Why bother? You were never strong enough to take your throne, never mind rule from it._

"The trees are thinning out," Byleth spoke from next to him, making him start. He had not realized she was listening.

"Not far now, then," Jeralt said, gazing at the spires of Garreg Mach with a strangely melancholic expression.

"You've been here before," Dimitri said to him, flatly.

"A long time ago," he replied, before glancing at his daughter.

***

Garreg Mach seemed to be a shadow of what it once was. No longer was there a bustling market or a wide parade ground where mercenaries flocked. A few traders hawked goods to a handful of weary-looking monks and servants. If there were any Knights of Seiros left, he could not see them. There were signs of bandits infesting the outer ruins of the monastery, but they had not dared to attack Jeralt's group, to Dimitri's frustration. The once-beautiful monastery seemed old now, exhausted, as though wounded in both its stone and spirit.

His feelings about the place were mixed. He had spent a year here, with his closest friends, and memories of training with them, watching them grow into adulthood, were strong. But there was always a counterbalance. The glowing night of the students' ball against his lance spearing civilians in Lonato's rebellion. Teasing Sylvain for failing with yet another girl against finding Professor Manuela bleeding on the floor of Jeritza's room. Hours spent talking with Dedue about their plans for rehabilitating Duscur (and how naive they sounded now!) against Edelgard removing her mask and staring at him with her mocking eyes.

Seteth awaited them by the front gates. He, too, appeared...diminished. He was very thin and pale, his eyes huge against hollowed cheekbones. Dimitri felt an unwelcome twinge of compassion as he tried to keep out of his sight; Seteth was, perhaps, the only person in Fódlan who could creditably claim to have suffered a worse five years than himself.

"Captain Jeralt?" the Church administrator said in his crisp, educated voice, and Jeralt stepped out to meet him.

"You're Seteth?"

"I am. I was Lady Rhea's right hand...but that was long ago."

"I don't know you."

"You would not. I arrived here after your time." He grimaced faintly. "Until five years ago I was under the impression you had perished."

"Yes, about that," Jeralt said coldly. "How did you know to find me?"

"I--that is, the Church--received information that you were still alive from a young woman named Leonie, who claimed to have been your apprentice." Suddenly, Dimitri remembered why Jeralt's name had been familiar. Jeralt Blade-Breaker, the indomitable. Leonie had seemed incapable of not talking about him...but she had never mentioned a daughter. "Your apprentice gave advice on the places your band liked to gather, and I sent word there."

"Apprentice...that's putting it strongly," Jeralt said, but resignedly. "And why have you called me back here, eh? Five years on? Did your knight-captain die?"

The Seteth of old would have snapped something back haughtily, but instead he merely covered his eyes for a moment. "We have no knight-captain. We do not need one--we have very few knights left at all. As to why I asked for you...come inside. I do not wish for this to be heard by many ears."

"About that. We have some villagers we'll need you to look after; we picked them up from Remire on our way here. They'll be cold and hungry. I don't agree to hear anything from you until you accept them."

Seteth blinked. "Remire? How many villagers?"

"Twenty-two. There was a bandit attack and a fire, but we got most of them out. Mainly women and children. Some stayed behind, but I won't force them onto your charity."

"At our last official census, Remire Village had a population of nearly two hundred," Seteth said, something of his old prosiness back in his voice. "You saved twenty and called it a success?"

Jeralt stared at him hard for a long moment. "Unless they'd turned invisible, there were not two hundred people in that village."

"Remire is Arundel territory," said one of the monks behind Seteth. "It seems likely he would have stripped the village of nearly every able-bodied person for his army. He is very keen for the stalemate to be broken."

"True enough," Seteth replied wearily. "Very well, the Church will care for your villagers. I will send people for them shortly. Now, will you come in to hear me out?"

"Yes. But my daughter comes in with me." Byleth stepped up to her father's side.

"Daughter..." Seteth's eyes widened, and Dimitri could almost see the wheels beginning to turn in his head.

"Born _after _I left the Church," Jeralt said, very pointedly. 

"After? Oh...yes, yes, of course, you may both hear this. The rest of your men, though--"

"I'm coming in as well." Dimitri pushed his way through the ranks, ignoring the muttering that sprang up at this. There was a risk he'd be recognized, but it seemed almost irrelevant. Byleth was right in that anything that helped the Church would hurt the Empire. If there was fighting to be done, he would be part of it.

Jeralt shot him what would have been to anyone else a quelling glare. "Listen, pup, I don't give a damn who you think you are, while you're in my band you will obey--"

_"Prince Dimitri?" _ From the shadows of his left eye, a pipingly sweet voice sang out. Dimitri turned slowly, and the world around him went silent.

She had cut her sandy-blonde hair short, and hidden it under a cap and veil, but her ethereal blue eyes remained the same as ever. Her smile, while still motherly, had an edge of grief to it as she looked into his face.

"I thought you were dead," Mercedes said softly. "We all thought..."

He couldn't bear it, the grace in her living self's words clashing hard against the mockery her ghost had whispered in his ears for the past five years. He stepped back, wanting to go--somewhere, anywhere--but a hand gripped his arm with surprising strength.

Byleth.

He pulled free and saw something flash in her eyes. Around them both, mercenaries, villagers, and Church members alike were staring at him as though he were an exotic species of dangerous animal--half awe, half terror.

"Prince Dimitri?" Seteth's voice came from very far away. "Are...are you certain, Mercedes?" He sounded bewildered, and perhaps it was no wonder; Seteth had not seen him often in the Academy, and he had been younger then, smaller, with two good eyes.

"I don't know how, or why, but I swear by the Goddess it is him, Seteth." She reached out her hand, before letting it drop awkwardly as Dimitri merely stared back at her.

"Yes," he said at last, harshly. "I am. Cornelia assassinated my uncle and condemned me for the crime. I escaped."

"But then where is..." Mercedes began, before her eyes widened in shock and grief. Dimitri looked away, suddenly exhausted.

_Yes, where am I, your Highness? Oh, that's right, I died saving you. Do you think it was a good trade, your Highness?_

"Does this matter right now?" Jeralt snapped irritably, and the courtyard's eyes turned back to him. "I mean, wonderful, Faerghus has their prince back, but I doubt this actually means anything for the nonce--aside from ensuring that this damn war will never end."

"I..." Seteth wringed his hands. "Your Highness, forgive me for not giving you the appropriate welcome, and I am of course delighted beyond words to see that you live, but...it is true that..."

"Is your plan so secret, then?" Dimitri said coldly.

The administrator sighed and turned to Jeralt. "I have to invite him into our council. Protocol demands it. Rhea, perhaps...but I do not have the authority to deny him."

"Of course not," Jeralt said with heavy irony. "Come on then, you two. Daylight's wasting."

Byleth and Dimitri followed the two older men inside, leaving Mercedes behind, her eyes filled with tears. Byleth's hand rested on her sword pommel, her brow creased in thought, as the great doors swung shut behind them.

The entrance hall was not quite empty; about half a dozen Knights of Seiros stood at attention. He recognized Alois, Gilbert, and Catherine, all looking older and more worn-down. Gilbert's face paled when his eyes landed on Dimitri, but Alois beat him to speech.

"Jeralt! Goodness, you haven't changed a bit, what's it been, twenty-five years? I thought you were dead for most of it! And I see young Dimitri has climbed out of the grave as well--though he's changed quite a lot..." Some of his exuberance faded as he saw the prince's expression, and he hurriedly turned to Byleth. "And who might this lovely lady be?"

"My daughter, Byleth. Byleth, this is Alois...I suppose you actually could call him a former apprentice of mine." Jeralt gave Alois a hard stare of his own, and the boisterous knight at last took the hint and fell silent.

"Further discussions can be had later," cut in Seteth. "For now, Jeralt, let us finally discuss the job I have in mind. To begin with: payment. As it stands, the Church's sources of funding are limited. We can of course offer you supplies, and I may say with confidence that our weapons and armor are still of superb quality. Actual coin, however...many of the Church's treasure rooms and artifacts were looted in the original sacking, and bandits have been a constant threat ever since. We do not have enough trained knights to guard everything." He sighed. "However, should you complete your mission successfully, I think you will find that you may name any reward you desire. For you, your daughter, and any mercenaries that you choose."

"But nothing up front, is what you're saying?" Jeralt rubbed his chin. "All right, out with it--what is it you want us to do?"

Seteth took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes as if in prayer. "We have discovered that Archbishop Rhea is being held captive in the dungeons of the Palace of Enbarr. We have also discovered, at immense personal cost, that there is a secret way into the Palace. It is not guarded and we believe the current Emperor knows nothing about it. Therefore, the Church of Seiros wishes to formally hire you, Jeralt Eisner, to devise and carry out the rescue of the Archbishop."

The hall was so quiet that movement outside could be heard. Jeralt stared at Seteth in open shock; even Byleth had tilted her head sideways. Dimitri's mind began to burn with possibilities...a secret passage into Edelgard's palace...a secret passage to Edelgard herself?

"If Jeralt will not do it," he broke the silence, "I will."

"Your Highness, you could not--" Gilbert began, only for Jeralt to override them both.

"You say I could name anything as a reward, but even if we rescue Rhea, that won't stop the war," he said bluntly. "Unless you want us to assassinate the Emperor, or capture her palace"--and here his eye did fall on Dimitri--"neither of which, needless to say, I will do. So I think you're offering a bargain you can't uphold..."

"Archbishop Rhea is a powerful figure to the people of Fódlan. If we were to bring her back to the Church, if the people could see she was alive and well...many of our knights and monks would return, and we would be better able to negotiate with the more pious lords. With a proper force of our own, we could lend our strength to the Alliance..."

"If, could, would...is that really all you have to offer me?"

Seteth slowly folded his arms. "Let me ask you a question, then. You know Lady Rhea, better than many others. You know what she was capable of doing, both to you and to others. I think you may have even guessed at what many in the Church have not. We were taken by surprise by the Empire's attack, that is true, but we are watchful now. So, with your unsurpassed knowledge of the archbishop, let me ask: do you truly believe you can ever count her out of a fight?"

Jeralt exhaled slowly. "No," he said at last, softly. "No...I don't think so. You're right. She's at her nastiest up against the ropes." He ran a hand across his face. "This will take planning. I need to think, at least for a few days, until I can see if it's even possible. You'll need to tell me everything about your secret passage."

"Of course," Seteth said, sounding enormously relieved. "You are a good man, truly, Jeralt, for even considering this. Consider the monastery at your disposal." He bowed formally, before adding, "Whatever you decide, we will care for the villagers. You should have known that already."

"You'll forgive me for saying so," Jeralt said shortly, "but my trust of the Church has taken a severe battering over the years." He turned to Byleth. "Go get yourself and the men settled in. Don't tell them why we're here yet. Seteth's right to keep this a secret from as many as possible."

"Of course, Father," Byleth replied with her usual formality, but Dimitri fancied--although he knew this could not be--that there was a hard edge to her voice. She made as if to go, then stopped when Dimitri spoke out.

"I meant what I said. If you do not accept the mission, I will. If you intend to go, then I go with you. The Emperor and I have debts to settle."

"This isn't a game," Jeralt said sharply. "If I were to do this, I'm telling you right now that I have no intention of marching there at the head of an army and seizing the Palace. The operation would be small, quiet, and as far as possible _bloodless_. There won't be room for vendettas."

Dimitri laughed. "I think you will find that there's room for vendettas wherever you go, Blade Breaker. Especially when it comes to the Church." He glanced at the other knights, who stood like statues; even Alois's normally cheerful face looked slightly sick. "Look at them! Why aren't they rescuing Rhea themselves? They've spent five years trembling in their monastery's ruins, poking at bandits and rescuing peasants, too afraid to do anything that truly matters, because the one time they did try, they failed utterly..." He stopped, no longer knowing if he was talking to the knights or to himself.

There was a rasp as Catherine drew Thunderbrand, the light glinting off its Crest Stone. "Nobody," she said, through gritted teeth, "not even you, gets to call me a coward."

"Please--" begged Gilbert, but nobody was listening.

"Why not?" he snapped back. "Where's Shamir these days? Have you killed her yet? That must sting--she chose the country who left Dagda in ruins over you. Was there a reason, or did she just like to be on the winning side?"

Catherine lunged at him with blinding speed as the other knights fought to restrain her. Dimitri was ready, unsheathing his spear and catching her blade on it. He had trained with her for the best part of a year--he knew her moves, two quick strikes, dodge and strike again.

Suddenly, there was a ringing _clang _and an almost painful shock rattled up his arm, leaving it numb. Several feet of his spear slipped through his grasp before he regained control of his grip. He swung around, his rage building at the unexpected attack, and was forced to swiftly parry another strike from Byleth's blade.

The force of their attacks pushed them back, and they locked eyes, Byleth showing no signs of exertion, though her strikes had been astonishingly strong.

"You," she said, and everyone in the room could hear her fury, "have no right to call anyone a coward."

Ghosts flickered in the darkness of his eye, laughter echoed behind him, and it was no longer Byleth that he saw but Edelgard, the sunlight glinting off her blade. He snarled and swept his spear up, but she deflected it using the edge of the sword and stabbed forward. He blocked her easily, prepared by now for the startling power, and flicked his spear sideways under the blade. She was too graceful, dodging back before darting forwards with a technique he had never seen.

He had no idea how much time passed in their battle. His guard was too strong for Edelgard to break, but she was too quick and agile to be caught herself, his spear always missing her by a fraction of an inch. She was manipulating him into overcommitting every strike, keeping him on the defensive, while coming at him from every angle to force him to give up ground. She never dared get into a direct clash of strength with him. She didn't need to; five years of bad food and interrupted sleep, plus a punishing journey, were at last beginning to tell on him. His strikes became slower while she seemed as fresh as ever. He blocked her again, and he roared in frustration, while his ghosts' mockery rose to a fever pitch.

At last she committed to a full attack, and he only just managed to raise his leaden arms to parry her, feeling again the painful numbness travelling up his bones. He realized, finally, that this was a fight he could not win, and the knowledge sent a line of cold down his spine, like icy water.

_I do not want to die._

At this final failing, the spear slipped free of his grip as though it had decided he was unworthy of holding it; it clanged to the floor and he looked up into eyes that were no longer purple, but blue. The anger had gone from Byleth, and she now seemed, if anything, slightly confused at what had transpired.

"All right, you two," Jeralt said at last, sounding oddly far away. He was staring at his daughter with an unreadable expression. "It's over now. Weapons away."

Byleth looked sideways at her sword, which now had ragged edges from the strength of her parries. She slid it slowly into its sheath, and turned back to Dimitri and opened her mouth. The blankness had flooded back into her face and she swayed slightly.

"Hey, are you--" began her father, before Byleth's eyes rolled up and she pitched backwards.

Dimitri moved before he was even aware of it, sliding to his knees and catching her an instant before her head split the stones. Carefully he lowered her to the ground and touched her head, wondering with an unwelcome pang if he had caused her an injury after all.

He looked up to see Jeralt standing above them both, his arms folded. He looked...exasperated.

"Damn it," he said. "Not again."


	4. Chapter 4

Darkness.

It was all around her, suffocating, colder than deepest winter. She could not see her hands before her face as she pressed her fingers to her eyes, wondering if, somehow, she had gone blind...

"Byleth!"

Her memories were--shattered. It was the only word she could find to describe it. Bits and pieces flashing through her mind like shards of broken glass. Her father boosting her up into a pony's saddle. The scream of the first man she'd killed. A thatched cottage bursting into raging flames. Hours spent practicing until her blade moved in tandem with her thoughts.

A little girl, her eyes rolling back, her face twitching grotesquely as--

_not that one not that one not that one_

"Byleth!"

Pain lanced through her chest. She turned towards the voice, still unable to see where it was coming from.

"Reach out to me, or we are both lost, fool!"

Without thinking she thrust her hand in the direction of the voice, and felt warm fingers curl around her own. Gasping as a sudden force nearly wrenched her to the ground, she stumbled and fell to one knee, her hand still tightly closed on the invisible other, who huddled against her. Byleth wrapped her other arm around the stranger and dug her heels in as the force pulled at them both, like a river in full flood.

"Almost, almost," the voice next to her crooned, and Byleth strained with all her might against the pull. There was another sharp stabbing pain beneath her ribs, and then--

Brightness.

Her memories remained clouded, but Byleth felt certain she'd seen nothing like this room before. It was all harsh, jagged edges lined in metal and polished black stone. Thin webbings of etheral blue light twined through the walls, and a small chandelier swayed under the weight of a heavy, glowing crystal. There were no candles or hearths, and the air was almost painfully cold.

"Look down," said Sothis, pulling free from her arm. 

They were floating, hovering a few feet from the floor, which glowed just as the walls did. A large table dominated the room, a thick shroud flung over it to cover something that looked ominously like a corpse.

By its side, resting on top of the shroud, a sword: long and oddly serrated, shining with a fierce molten light. 

"What is that?" Byleth asked, before realizing in the current scheme of things it was possibly the least important question. "Where are we? Why am I floating?"

"How could I possibly know where we are?" Sothis replied with a hint of asperity. "I remember nothing of the world other than what I see through your eyes. As for why we float...I suspect we are caught, as they say, _twixt. _Neither here nor there...in fact, I think we currently _exist _neither here nor there..."

"We...we're ghosts?" Perhaps it made sense, Byleth thought, perhaps the darkness we passed through was...

"No more than I usually am, tethered to you. You have seen me out and about in the real world often enough? I am attached to your soul, what little of it exists, so I can appear to your eyes. This time...hmph. I think we have been _summoned. _How awfully rude! Without your admittedly powerful will pulling me back, I think I would have been torn entirely from you and tethered to...that." The girl pointed down.

"The sword, or whatever's underneath the shroud?"

Sothis shrugged. "I know not. That sword is clearly a Hero's Relic, but look--it lacks a Crest Stone, yet glows with life anyway. What could an old sword have to do with you or I?"

Before Byleth could even begin to theorize, however, there was a soft hissing sound and a section of the wall slid away. Two figures shrouded in heavy cloaks stepped into the room from a corridor gleaming blue. Byleth froze, waiting for them to raise the alarm as they glanced around, but they showed no sign of disturbance. She had to be invisible to them, as Sothis was to everyone else.

"The Sword _is _glowing," the taller of the two figures said with mild surprise. "This is why you tried the ritual again?"

"Indeed! The Crest Stone is still being withheld from us, but some life force is without doubt animating the Sword. It is not at full power yet, not without the Stone, but it is a rather unique weapon nonetheless."

"Yes, but..." The taller man hesitated, as though unwilling to be seen as insufficiently enthusiastic. "I thought Thales said that the Sword, while nice to have, is not essential any more? After all, we have the Dark Sword, and the girl has the right Crest--"

"Thales does not trust the emperor and nor do I. She has been unreliable from the first, and the longer this war drags on the more volatile she grows. He will not give her the Dark Sword while we have better potential options." The smaller hooded man waved a hand over the shroud. "This is only the beginning of my experiments, dear Myson. Give me time before declaring me non-essential."

"Beginning? I thought you had been working on this for, what, twenty years? Twenty-five?"

"Oh, longer than that. But the first results did not appear until about that time, true. I could induce some response in our dear old friend, but no real life, none at all. I tried it over and over again but nothing worked. In the end, I realized that it was all quite pointless without the Crest Stone and I fear I pushed the experiments aside, giving them no more thought. Then, five years ago, I discover that those fools in the Western Church found this Sword lying in Seiros's tomb!"

"But they were thwarted," murmured Myson, his head still turned towards the weapon. "I remember Thales's wrath well. How did you find it?"

"I thought the same as you, initially. A group of students burst in and found the Western Church just as they were on the verge of opening the tomb. The Church invaders were slaughtered by the students--good riddance there--and I assumed that Rhea simply returned the Sword to its resting place. My own disguise was seen through some time later, forcing my return to Shambhala, so I believed we had all missed our chance...until it occurred to me that I was not the only person with a keen interest in the blade. The Riegan boy was researching it day and night. He would even discuss it with me, from time to time. It was his House that went into the mausoleum, and he must have seen the Sword with his own eyes being taken from the tomb. He was not fool enough to try stealing it again under Rhea's nose, but after the Emperor's attack, with Rhea gone and the Church in turmoil...surely he would have struck while the iron was hot."

"So that's where you've been the past five years?" There was a hint of mockery to Myson's dry voice. "Attempting to steal a sword from a child?"

The smaller figure went still. "It was not _easy_," he hissed. "I had to discover first that he took it, then learn exactly where he was keeping it, then formulate ways past the protections he had placed around it, _and_ arrange matters so that his presence would be required elsewhere. All of which takes time. And I did have other duties..." He sighed. "But whatever plots von Riegan had for the Sword, I suspect he was well and truly disillusioned by the time I took it. It would simply never work for him. At any rate, he has raised no alarm, as far as I know..."

There was a sudden sensation that Byleth could only describe as a ripple; the world darkened and she felt something tug her backwards.

Myson glanced around absent-mindedly. "What was that?"

"Oh, the ritual is ending. I did not set it up to last for very long, it requires so much power."

"This Alliance leader, then. If he has a, er, _scholarly _interest in the Sword's magic, perhaps he might be brought around? He is said to be cleverer than most of them, and no friend to the beasts..."

The figure was already shaking his head, even as blackness began to swirl around them. "You do not understand the surface-dwellers. They are too fixated on the mundane. They have no notion of long-term strategy, of necessary sacrifice, none at all. They have grown soft, an insult to true humanity..."

"Our time here is up. The tether to your flesh is no longer suppressed," whispered Sothis, and at her words Byleth felt the strange current from earlier begin to wrench at her. This time, though, it felt warm, almost friendly, like an exasperated voice calling her home...

***

"Awake already?" Jeralt asked in a deceptively mild tone as Byleth sat up. Sothis was gone.

They were in a moderately-sized chamber lined with beds. The air had a sweet, clean scent, like fresh flowers. The late autumn sunlight drew shadows on the wall above her head.

"What happened?" Byleth hugged her knees to her chest. She felt dizzy and drained, aching like she'd just broken through a fever.

"You were fighting the boy--excellent technique, by the way--and then you passed out. It's been about three days." Her father was sitting on a chair by the foot of her bed, a tangle of map scrolls lying forgotten across his knees.

"Was I sick? I don't remember..."

"No," Jeralt shook his head. "This has happened to you before, quite a few times, though it's been a while since the last incident. Normally you go out for about a week."

She frowned. "I don't remember ever going into a coma." _Or having dreams of men talking over a sword. _She decided not to tell her father about it. He would dismiss it, or worry she was insane.

"You never do. You wake up, have this exact conversation with me, and then in a day or so you've forgotten all about it."

"What's wrong with me? What does it mean?" Possibilities whirled through her mind. Was she cursed, or diseased?

"Nobody knows. The infirmary keeper here had a look at you and said you were in perfect health. Well, aside from...you know." He tapped the centre of his chest. "Bit awkward explaining that to a doctor." Her father looked down at the maps and began to stack them in a pile on the floor. "Seriously, I wouldn't worry about it too much. It's not like you can control it. Everyone's got something."

Perhaps he sensed that Byleth was not entirely reassured by his words, because he rapidly changed tack.

"Why'd you go after the prince, anyway? I've never seen you like that before."

She frowned, trying to remember. The memory seemed oddly obscured, as though she were viewing it through blurred glass. Was this the beginning of the forgetfulness her father had warned her about? Abruptly, she felt something warm dissipate through her skull, and the memory cleared.

"I was...angry," she began hesitantly. "Angry that he lied to us. Angry about what he was saying to the knights, when he..." She stopped.

Displaying what was, for him, unusual tactfulness, Jeralt didn't press the issue. "It was tense, even after your little fight. Luckily Alois managed to calm everyone down. He's good at that. Suppose it comes from having kids of his own."

"They were scared of Dimitri," Byleth murmured, remembering the pale, sick looks the knights had exchanged as the prince had begun ranting.

"He went to school here." Jeralt was gazing at the window now, his eyes distant. "They have--had--this program called the Officer's Academy, for rich and noble brats. It's one tenth learning and nine tenths brainwashing, but...they care for their students. Apparently he used to be a real sweet kid, especially for a prince. When the Emperor launched her attack, he broke down the middle. It's hard to see your pupils like that."

"He really hates her. The emperor."

"Yeah. He was in the scuffle when she tried stealing some Crest Stones from the monastery and saw her mask come off. He went berserk. Tore through fully armored soldiers to get to her, when he was just seventeen years old." Jeralt shrugged. "She was at the school too as a student. Maybe they were friends. Maybe they were more than that. Who knows? Nobles are a strange bunch, and royals are even worse."

Byleth studied her hands for a time, trying to reconcile it; the cruel, scarred young man she had met in a burning village, against a heartbroken schoolboy. She couldn't make the pieces fit.

"Is he still insisting on coming with us to rescue the Archbishop?" She had been angry for another reason, she remembered now.

"Yes." Jeralt rolled his eyes. "I can't see a way around it--the Church refuses to force him to stay. Oh, well...he may be useful. At the end of the day, what he wants to do with the emperor is no business of ours, so long as he doesn't mess with our plans. And I don't think he's quite mad enough to do that, not while I'm the only one who knows the location of the passageway."

"So we're definitely going to rescue her, then." The edge to her voice made her father turn back to her.

"Something wrong?" he asked, lightly, but she could see his shoulders tense.

Byleth looked up to meet his eyes. "You've always said you didn't like the Church and wanted nothing to do with them. You never taught me anything about the religion of Seiros. Now I find out that they know you, that you used to work here at the monastery, and for some reason you pretended you were dead to them. I'm thinking that Prince Dimitri isn't the only person who kept secrets, and he at least has an excuse. You're my father."

Jeralt didn't speak for a long minute, but nor did he look away. At last he sighed. "You're right to be annoyed. I know. Can you believe me when I say that I was trying to protect you?"

"Protect me from what?"

Her father reached out and took her arm, squeezing it gently. "I wanted you to have a normal life--at least, as normal a life as a mercenary can have. I still do want that for you. Yes, you're connected to the Church, I think you've guessed that. But the Church is a strange organization. It's not like anything else. It gives and takes in equal measure. Once they get their hooks into you, they never let go. You'll always be part of it."

"_You _escaped."

"And twenty-five years later here I am again, dancing on Rhea's strings, despite everything. See what I mean? The Church has been Fódlan's shadow for a thousand years. It doesn't really matter who's king or duke or emperor of what. They take noble children and train them to think as the Church does. Their influence is so pernicious that they don't even have to be corrupt, because those children will go on to become great lords while acting exactly as the Church wants them to without anyone saying a word. And if anyone does step out of line, the Church can just point a finger and half a dozen armies will show up to take care of the problem." He smiled a little ironically. "Well, that's how it used to be, anyway. They've fallen on hard times."

"If you don't like the Church, why are we rescuing the Archbishop?"

Jeralt let go of her arm. "Because," he said frankly, "they're the best alternative we have. The world's going mad right now--Faerghus starving, giant monsters crushing cities, bandits infesting every village, the Alliance splitting down the seams...whatever their other faults, the Church has kept Fódlan fairly stable. Since the Leicester Alliance formed, most of our little wars have been external--we've fought in plenty of them ourselves. Seteth is right when he says that Rhea could prove to be the figurehead the Alliance lords need to unite against the emperor, especially if she can bring forces of her own to bear. The war's at a stalemate. If something doesn't happen soon..." He shook his head. "I hate politics, but there's more than that going on here. This is people's lives. We need a world where those like the Remire Village folks can live without having their homes burned down by bandits. Rhea's capable of making that world. I don't know that the Flame Emperor is." 

"All very well," Byleth replied, "but what does the Church have to do with me, that makes them so dangerous to me in particular?"

He smiled, a little sadly. "Tell you what. I don't know the full story myself, so I'll make you a promise. If we succeed in getting Rhea out, we can demand answers from her together. If we don't, then I'll explain what I know and leave you to deal with the mystery as you will."

Byleth hesitated. She wanted to push, to know more...but this was her father. The only person in the world that she trusted. If he felt that it was best she didn't know something, then perhaps he was right.

She pulled off the covers of the hospital bed and swung her legs sideways, preparing to get up. Jeralt hurried to support her as she straightened and took a careful step. She was still bone-weary, but it didn't feel like the type of exhaustion that sleep would cure. After a few more steps where her legs didn't collapse under her, she gently pulled free of Jeralt's hands. "I'm okay."

He smiled again, more naturally this time. "I know you are. You're the toughest person I've met. A building could fall on you and I think you'd make it out." He picked up his stock of maps. "If you're sure you're fine on your own, I'll get back to working out how to jailbreak a palace. Oh, and if you have time, you may want to check on Dimitri. He was convinced that he'd somehow killed you, especially when the heartbeat thing got out. He seemed pretty worried, actually. Well, _worried_might be a bit strong, but he asks me if you're still alive now and then. Plus, he stopped you from cracking your head open on the floor, so you might want to thank him for that. He spends a lot of time in the cathedral."

She sighed. "I'll do that, then."

***

Sothis appeared to Byleth as she wound her way through the various halls and courtyards of the monastery.

She could see how Garreg Mach must have been very beautiful back in its time, and it had not lost all of its grandeur, but there was a neglected feeling to the buildings now. The gardens were just a little unkempt, the grass a little too long. Piles of rock and plaster had been swept into corners and left untouched. Any repairs to the walls had been done hurriedly and practically, with none of the careful artistry on the surrounding stones. But the day was pleasantly warm for autumn and someone had placed vases of fresh flowers in every room, perfuming the air with a honey-like scent.

"The vision," said Sothis, and Byleth stopped. It was hard to think of frigid, blue-tinged rooms in this damaged palace of sunlight.

"Yes," she replied quietly, leaning against a wall. "It was real?"

"Of course it was real! Did you think we were sharing a hallucination? Someone tried quite hard to drag me from your body and pull me into something else. It did not work, obviously, but it came awfully close..."

"My memories. They fade because of this ritual? Father said it's happened before, and that man..."

"The ritual must have a role to play. But remember what else your father said? You usually are unconscious for a week. But there are gaps in your memories that are much longer than that. Surely you would know--or at the very least Jeralt would have mentioned it--if you were comatose for very long periods of time?"

"True. But what does it mean, then?"

"I do not know," Sothis said, sounding unusually serious. "But I am worried, Byleth. Before, when you were speaking to your father about your fight with that rather pugnacious young prince, I felt your memories...going."

She nodded. "I felt that too. Like I was forgetting it, even as I tried to remember..."

"It was more than that. You were not forgetting, the memory was being _removed. _Going somewhere else, just like you and I did!"

"Something was taking my memories?" The thought seemed very, very odd. What memories could she possibly have that anyone would want?

"Yes, it is inexplicable. But I am certain that is what was happening. I prevented the memory from being removed and nothing attempted to stop me from doing so, and the ritual had very obviously ended before you woke up. So I do not think the ritual caused this memory theft. At least, not directly." She folded her arms across her chest. "The way they spoke--it seemed like the ritual was different because of that sword. How unusual...a relic of the Church, stolen by a student, that was hidden in a tomb of a person named Seiros, yet is connected to you and I..."

The two of them frowned in silence for a few moments before Byleth spoke.

"It's interesting, but I don't see what we can do about it. Perhaps he'll perform the ritual again, and we can overhear more..."

"Must you always be so passive? But I suppose you are right. Remember, you need to hold onto me tightly, or I will be lost." She flickered into nothingness again.

Byleth nodded, more to herself, and continued her walk to the cathedral. She found herself crossing a large, particularly ornate bridge, as the spiritual center of the Church loomed above her.

Of all the inner monastery buildings, it had suffered worst. Half the roof was simply collapsed inwards over the altar, leaving huge piles of rubble that she skirted. Several of the beautiful rainbow-paned windows were shattered, and a fine, glittering powder shone like gold dust across the floor where the glass had been crushed beneath soldiers' heels. Byleth looked up into the patch of deep blue sky visible through the ceiling, and wondered why the Church had made essentially no attempt to repair what had to be the most important building in the monastery.

Perhaps it was a matter of resources, that they could not source such large amounts of stone and wood without attracting the emperor's attention. Perhaps they could not bear to mend their cathedral in the haphazard way that had served for the mundane buildings, that they would rather leave the church broken than rebuilt incorrectly. Or perhaps it was that the building itself was somehow tainted. This had once been a holy place, designed for peace, confession and mediation, yet it had been violated, torn apart at the whims of mortal men while its archbishop was carried off to places unknown. No goddess or saints had stopped them. The Church could rebuild the monastery stone by stone, exactly as it was, but it could not plaster over that painful truth.

Dimitri stood at the largest pile of rubble, where the altar must have been once. She wondered if he was praying.

"Hello," she said.

He didn't turn, didn't speak, but--despite everything--she felt she knew him better now. Dimitri was existing in no man's land, a dark and wild place where he chose to await whatever horrors came searching. He would not leave it, not for a classmate or a teacher or for a mercenary's strange daughter; he could only be approached.

Byleth understood. She had spent much of her life in a prison of her own making; whether by nature or design, she had successfully raised walls against everyone except, perhaps, her own father. She didn't know where or how it had gone so wrong, but people looked at her now and the walls were all they saw. And yet, she knew the key was in the room with her; perhaps an inch away from her own hand.

"I wanted to apologize," she said quietly. "I shouldn't have attacked you, and I shouldn't have said what I did."

Now he did turn to her, slowly. Despite their period of recuperation, he looked, if anything, even paler and more tired. His blue eye was deeply shadowed and she could not read anything within it.

"Others have said much worse," he responded at last.

"That's never really been a good excuse." The shadows were beginning to lengthen in the chapel, and the wind whistled slightly through the ceiling. She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

He twitched his shoulder in the smallest of shrugs.

"Do you think they failed you, the knights? Because of what happened?"

Dimitri's eye narrowed. "I am so glad that the Church's policy of blindly trusting strangers with information they have no right to have is continuing. It must be part of their charter by now."

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "sarcasm really does not suit you. You need to pretend you don't care to pull it off. And you didn't answer my question."

"Fine. Yes, they failed me...and no." He shook his head, his anger flaring. "How could the monastery not have seen what she was? And yet I looked so hard at the time and refused to believe what I saw. She was taunting us with it, the entire time. I spoke to her once, during a mock battle we had, and she said something about how when we were rulers we could go to war with each other whenever we wished. I thought it was a tasteless joke, but even as she said it she must have been planning..."

Byleth tilted her head, watching him carefully. "You mean the Flame Emperor?'

He laughed sourly. "You see? Even the name. We never guessed. A peasant likely would have made the connection faster. But I was too close to her." He exhaled sharply. "You think I am obsessed with her."

"You are obsessed with her. My father thinks you were lovers."

He did not rise to the bait. "In one stroke, she destroyed everything I had built--and rebuilt. Attacking the Church. Turning my own Kingdom against me. Killing--" He choked on the words. "The Tragedy of Duscur."

Byleth frowned. "The Flame Emperor caused that?" From what she had heard, from her father and elsewhere, the Tragedy had been a pogrom of vengeance against a nation that had arranged an assassination against the old king of Faerghus and his family. It only occurred to her now that they would have been Dimitri's family too.

What would she have done, if Jeralt had suddenly died when she was a child? What would she have become, without that one sole source of human interaction?

"The Emperor...yes, I suspect..." But for the first time Dimitri sounded tired, a little uncertain; she had begun to press against one of the more fractured parts of his mind, and she hurriedly changed the subject.

"You are coming with us to Enbarr, then."

"Yes. Whatever your objections, I am. She thinks that because she is emperor that she will escape punishment for the sins she has committed. I intend to show her otherwise." His mouth twitched, and Byleth thought Dimitri was at his most dangerous then, smiling at the dream of some doubtlessly horrific judgement on the woman he blamed for everything.

There were many things she could say to that, but she was certain he would not hear any of them. Dimitri in his no man's land, in his dark prison: he thought the key was being held by a woman he once knew, a woman he had longed to trust, who had paid him back in death and betrayal. He might even be right--but Byleth didn't think so.

_Used to be a real sweet kid, especially for a prince._

"Why didn't you tell us who you were?" she asked him, remembering the flash of anger she had felt upon hearing that. Jeralt was correct--it had been odd for her to become so upset by such a small thing.

He shrugged again. "You were mercenaries. I thought that if I told you who I was, you would try to sell me to Cornelia."

"And you thought that even while we were going through considerable time and expense to escort the villagers to safety? That we would just hand you over to be tortured and executed?"

Dimitri said nothing to that, but strangely he would no longer meet her eyes.

Byleth smiled sadly to herself. He lashed out before the world could hurt him first; he believed everyone would betray him because it was all that he knew. Half of the mercenaries in her band would have understood.

She touched his arm and felt him flinch. His skin was cool beneath her fingers. "Thank you for catching me. When I fell."

"It was nothing," he said harshly. "Instinct."

_Haven't you found out by now that this won't work on me, Dimitri? You're not driving me away, no matter how hard you try._

She didn't move her hand. "Then I thank your instinct. I'm grateful, and so is my father. And he thinks you'll be helpful to us, on our way to Enbarr."

"I doubt that. He has tried everything to stop me from going."

Byleth smiled again. "I forget, you don't know my father at all. If he really didn't want you coming with us, he wouldn't let a little thing like the mighty Church of Seiros stop him. He pokes you because he wants to see how you react."

"That sounds..."

"Irrational? Maddening? It is. You'll get used to it." She released his arm. "We aren't your enemies, Dimitri. If you're going to be travelling with us--at least give us a chance."

She walked away, breathing in the scent of candle smoke and autumn flowers, feeling Dimitri's eye burning into her back and remembering the feel of his arm beneath her fingers.


End file.
